2666, by Roberto Bolano

Here are five thoughtful reviews of the five books of 2666, authored by a blogger who – from circumstantial evidence, like a title quotation to do with snow, a penchant for Victorian lit and knitting, and the use of an Emily Climbs bookcover in her avatar – sounds like a kindred spirit:

Part 1: The Part About the Critics

Part 2: The Part About Archimboldi

Part 3: The Part About Fate

Part 4: The Part About the Crimes

Part 5: The Part About Amalfitano

Here is the running list of things I jotted down on the back of a sales receipt during my first reading:

- I think every sentence is perfection.
- The characterization shines.
- I enjoy the summary, even dismissive introduction of Liz Norton: “Liz Norton, on the other hand, wasn’t what one would ordinarily call a woman of great drive, which is to say that she didn’t draw up long -or-medium-term plans and throw herself wholehearted into their execution. She had none of the attributes of the ambitious. When she suffered, her pain was clearly visible, and when she was happy, the happiness she felt was contagious.” (pg. (The latter line reminds me of the girl with the curl in the middle of her forehead “when she was good, she was very good; when she was bad, she was horrid.”) The lives of the critics, though, which center around Liz, render her a very enigmatic female.
- I was fascinated by Archimboldi’s Lola: her breadth of experience, her whole life story which has panned out because she was seized by passions, and the political and societal ramnifications of the geographic areas she lands in, or the people she encounters
- Bolano’s microscopic eye – I like all the revealing details, descriptions of people, places, thoughts. It is all showing, a presentation of scenes: no overarching analyses or telling. Part I is a series of moments, Part II the minute illustration of Archimboldi’s life. In Part III – juxtapositions of absurd events, Part IV returns to minute documentation. Only in Part V is there a traditional, kind of inverted fairy-tale like narrative pace.
- I can’t help but wonder: what propels Bolano to include certain elements in a scene? Do smaller objects play a symbolic role for a larger them?
- All this illustration is also highly subjective: the character’s emotions, always portrayed, are intimate and incredibly hyperbolic
- There is so much revelation of different characters, different human beings

Here are the quotations I tagged:

Probably the most famous quotation from this book, no doubt resonant with a generation of book-fiend fans:

“Leaving aside the fact tha A Simple Heart and A Christmas Carol were stories, not books, there was something revelatory about the taste of this bookish young pharmacist, who in another life might have been Trakl or who in this life might still be writing poems as desperate as those of his distant Austrian counterpart, and who clearly and inarguably preferred minor works to major ones. He chose The Metamorphosis over The Trial… and A Christmas Carol over A Tale of Two Cities or The Pickwick Papers. What a sad paradox, thought Amalfitano. Now even bookish pharmacists are afriad to take on the great, imperfect, torrential works, books that blaze paths into the unknown. They choose the perfect exercises of the great masters. Or waht amounts to the same thing: they want to watch the great masters spar, but they have no interest in real combat, when the great masters struggle agaisnt that something, that something that terrifes us all, that something that cows us and spurs us on, amid blood and mortal wounds and stench.” (pg. 277)

Disregarding all the aspersions this casts on the characters’ attitudes towards the killings, this is also a very accurate assessment of (what can be considered) literary “masterpieces.” Middlemarch, Atlas Shrugged, the Harry Potter series, and even 2666 itself are all flawed. Their authors are capable of more minor, “perfect exercises.”

“When poor people make money, they should admit publicly to having made only half as much. They shouldn’t even tell their children how much they really have, because then their children will want the whole inheritance and won’t be willing to share it with their adopted sibilings.” (pg. 249)

!!!

This brutal statement, delivered by Seaman, characterizes the black preacher. Perhaps it does more. I can’t help admiring that this sentence was crafted by the single poetic mind we met in earlier chapters.

“Those Spaniards believed in a mongrel whiteness. But they overestimated their semen and that was their mistake. You can’t rape that many people. It’s mathematically mpossible. It’s too hard on the body… They might have gotten some results if htey’d been capable o raping their own mongrel children and then their mongrel grandchildren and even their bastard great-grandchildren.” (pg. 288)

The theories people come up with, in a drunken tirade!

“A sketch of the industrial landscape in the third world,” said Fate, ” a piece of reportage about the current situation in Mexico, a panorama of the border, a serious crime story, for fuck’s sake.”

“Reportage?” asked his editor. “Is that FRench, nigger? Since when do you speak French?”

“I don’t speak French,” said Fate, “but I know what fucking reportage is.”

“I know what fucking reportage is, too,” said the editor, “and I also know merci and ua revoir and fair l’amour, which is the same as coucher avec moie. And I think that you, nigger, want to coucher avec moie, but you’ve forgot the voulez-vous, which in this case ought to hvae been your first move. You hear me? You say voulez-vous or you can get the fuck out.” (pg. 295)

I’m inadvertently struck by the crude, it seems, but talk about elegant speech amongst intelligentsia!

“Sometimes, especially on his days off, Inspector Juan de Dios MArtinez would have liked to go out with the director. That is, he wanted to be seen in public with her, eat at a downtown restaurant with her, neither a cheap nor a very expensive resaturant but a normal restaurant where normal couples went and where he would almost certainly run into someone he knew, to whom he would introduce the director naturally, casually, coolly, this is my girlfreind, Elvira Campos, she’s a psychiatrist. … The perfect happiness, goddamn it, thought Juan de Dios Martinez. But Elvira Campos wouldn’t even hear of a public relationship. Phone calls to the psychiatric enter, yes, so long as they were short. Meetings in person every two weeks. A glass of whiskey or Absolut vodka and nocturnal landscapes. Sterile goodbyes.”

Interesting, this intimate scrutiny into casual relationships, interesting, the divergence of the lover’s wishes, preferences, and weaknesses.

“She dreamed, for example… and then she dreamed about flying to Paris, where she would rent a tiny apartment, a studio, say between Villiers and Porte de Clichy, and then she would go to see a famous doctor, a wonder-working plastic surgeon, get a face-lift, get her nose and cheekbones fixed, have her breasts enlarged, in short, when she got off the operating table she would look like someone else, a different woman, not fiftysomething anymore but fortysomething, or better yet, just o ver forty, unrecognizable, new, changed, rejuvenated, although of course for a while she would go everywhere wrapped in bandages, like a mummy, not an Egyptian mummy but a Mexican mummmy, which would be something she enjoyed, walking to the metro, for example, knowing that all the Parisians were watching her surreptitiously, some of them even giving up their setas for her, imagining the horrible suffering, burns ,traffic accident, that this silent and stoic stranger hand undergone….and then someone brings a mirror and she stares at herself, she nods at herself, she approves of herself, with a gesture in which she rediscovers the sovereignty of childhood… I’m crazy about you the way you are, said Juan de Dios Martinez.” (pg. 535)

Who comes up with imagery like this?

“Her hands were tied behind her back with plastic cord, the kind used to tie up big packages. On her left hand she was wearing a long black glove, the kind used by the highest class exotic dancers. When the glove was removed they found tow rings, one on the middel figner, of real silver, and the other on the ring finger, workedi n the shape of a snake. On her right foot she was wearing a man’s sock, brand name Tracy. ANd most surprising of all: tied around her head, like a strange but not entirely implausible hat, was an expensive black bra. Otherwise the woman was naked and had no identification on her.” (pg. 575)

“The factory buildings were tall and each plant was surrounded by a wire fence and the light of the big streetlights bathed everything in a vvague aura of hast, of momentousness, which was false, since it was just another workday… Damp, fetid air, smelling of scorched oil, struck him in the face. He thought he heard laughter and accordion music on the wind.”

I like the commingling of loveliness and industrial waste in this scene.

“Hers [life story] had been mostly a disaster. She tried to be a theatre actress in New York, a movie actress in Los Angeles, tried to be a model in PAris, a photographer in London, a translator in Spain. she set out to study modern dance but gave it up the first year. She set out to be a painter and at her first show realized that she had made the worst mistake of her life. she wasn’t married, she had no childre, no family, no projects. It was the perfect moment to return to Mexico.” (pg. 604)

“When hans Reiter was ten, his one-eyed mother and one-legged father had their second child. It was a girl and they called her Lotte. She was a beautiful child and she might have been the first person on teh surface of the earth who interested (or moved) Hans Reiter… As far as Hans was concerned, his sister was the best thing that had ever happened to him, and many times he tried to draw her in the same notebook where he’d drawn different kidns of seaweed, but the results were always unsatisfactory: sometimes the baby looked like a bag of rubbish left on a pebbly beach, other times like Pterobius maritimus, a marine insect that lives in crevices and feeds on scraps, or Lipura maritima, another insect, very small and dark slate or gray, its habitat the puddles among rocks.

“In time, by stretching his imagination or tastes or his own artistic nature, he managed to draw her as a littel mermaid, more fish than girl… but always smiling, always with an enviable tendency to smile and see the positive side of things, which was a faithful reflection of his sister’s character.” (pg. 648)

I love the bizarre, ethereal, mad romance of Archimboldi and the madwoman Ingeborg:

” ‘I hate first editions and pyramids and pyramids and I hate those bloodthirsty Aztecs,’ said Ingeborg. ‘But the light of the stars make me dizzy. IT makes me want to cry,’ said Igneborg, her eyes damp with madness.” (pg. 831)

What I can glean from a first reading is scant. I really like the aforementioned blogger’s analyses of the book’s structure:

“The first three books tighten into an ever-more tense and surreal vortex, narrowing uncomfortably toward the mysterious wrongness in Santa Teresa, Mexico, which is related to the sexual homicides being committed there. Just as the third part reaches a climactic pinhole, the narration suddenly widens, becomes a stark, straightforward descent through a pile of dead bodies, the hardboiled chronicling of the female corpses of Santa Teresa, and of the inability of police, private citizens, detectives and seers to stop the perpetual appearances of more. As opposed to the increasing tension of the first three parts, I experienced the fourth part to be even throughout, tension released and stark reality confronted. Then, in The Part About Archimboldi, the narrative turns a sharp corner into something more like a traditional bildungsroman, in which a young boy grows up, lives his life and finds his calling: a calling which gradually curves toward the literary world of the first part, and a life which, even more tangentially, intersects with the Santa Teresa killings. “

I so love the perfection of the prose, that I will happily read it again and again. I hope there will be many more rereadings.

Smells of New York, by Jason Logan

From the Smells of New York map by Jason Logan

“Outside the Box”

Some notes from the Cheongdu Art Biennale, “Outside the Box”:
- Cheongdu is fresh (with a clear blue mountain as backdrop), clean, polished, people seemed alert, polite and (for lack of a better word) cultured
- The first exhibit, Pressing Matter, had many small and large craft items from designers around the world. It began with a nod to Le Corbusier, Ron Arad had furniture exhibited, the ______ brothers… and is themed around materiality. The quantity and range was such that I walked out, past Piet _______’s display of 10,000 teacups overwhelmed
- The second exhibit, Dissolving Views, had large-scale displays – such as a tall, wood-stacked pillar, the theme being the intersection of nature and artifice. The only contextual item was a Parisian work bench and factory chairs from the 1950s.
- I was happiest to see a proliferation of children – that this isn’t a mere trade show for those in the field, that parents bring their children to such an event, and that – all of the adolescents at the exhibit – seemed genuinely interested in what they saw. There was a teenage girl, for instance, studying _____’s set of tiled perspectives for two minutes. Children — all well-behaved, none bored — were drawn to the representational and whimsical: the ______’s chair of stuffed toys and rag dolls, the lopsided Victorian teacup series by ___________.
Of course, there are events outside: drum performances, hands-on craft booths – to keep everyone entertained
- The international craft competition was well displayed – a series of parallel walls had been set up in an auditorium, and artwork mounted on each, so every entry seemed to get equal emphasis. There was interesting work, although the themes of birth, rebirth, anthromorphic artifacts, and an obsession with teacups caused some ennui at this point
- The most crowded exhibit was in fact Canada’s guest pavillion. Perhaps the choice of work displayed really did convey some foreign exoticism to the population. The theme was “Unity and _________?’, and exhibits were themed around water, landscape, contact (native americans vs. european settlers), flora/fauna (“the endurance of longing for spring?”), arrival (immigration), myth/metaphor (cultural icons). I thought it was a good selection of themes and a good study of the Canadian identity. Some of the work, especially in Landscape, and Contact, was very typical, and looked like it could well have been exhibited at the Harbourfront. For a great deal of the work I could think of people I know who could’ve “done better.” I enjoyed most the Arrival and Myth/Metaphor section: sometimes in the artwork, and if not- then in the captions; we Canadians are very articulate artists – I found, and made note of, many clues to self and cultural identity.

My favourite exhibit was Structure of Shadow (Carnival) by Bohyun Yoon, which was installed in its own small, cubic room. It had dismembered action figures, strung on a shelf unit in the center of a room – which has just enough clearance space on all four sides for visitors to walk around. As the pendulum light in the centre swung back and forth, the shadows changed in scale and their figures’ postures varied. The shadows were cast on the walls and floor.

http://www.bohyunyoon.com/structure_of_shadow.m.html

http://www.bohyunyoon.com/structure_of_shadow.m.html

More images of other works coming soon!

Homesick: My Own Story by Jean Fritz

This is the autobiography of an American girl, growing up in China in the 1920s, fiercely proud of being American. She is – like so many YA fiction heroines, like Caddie Woodlawn or Patty in Summer of My German Soldier, willfully different, stubborn, full of secret delight in the world. But while I found these traits — best expressed in the yearning for her grandmother, the summers at the sea, the little sister who died– easy to relate to in many novels, and especially inspiring in my favourite LMM characters… I simply found Jean a little annoying. Maybe I thought her bursts of patriotism were a little too immature and grating.

The backdrop for Jean’s childhood is Hankow, during the revolution. Jean’s father, who works for the YMCA, is directly involved in… helping out? But the revolution stays in the background of Jean’s own life and childhood dramas, which I think is effective. Jean’s friends disperse, she notices differences in the attitude of their Chinese servants, and Jean and her mother are forced to evacuate, but Jean’s world remains very sheltered: nothing happens to her immediate family or causes them delay. Instead her concerns are her best friend, Andrea’s parents’ divorce, Andrea’s stylish silk stockings, the loss of freedom in being able to wander all over Hankow, her cat…

The appropriate conclusion is that when Jean gets to her grandmother’s house, and begins 8th grade in Washington – she learns, as she combats the ignorance and insults of her classmates – the China was more a part of herself than she had acknowledged. Jean’s very minor troubles at school are still sheltered by the love and sympathy of her grandmother and aunt, and the book ends with laughter.

Upon rereading, each chapter does function nicely as a short story on growing up – each themed on a tiny grief, or milesone, of childhood, like singing the American national anthem, or the anticipation and death of Jean’s baby sister.

The Cat Ate My Gymsuit, by Paula Danziger

I found this book lacking, despite the quirky title and a sarcastic teenage narrator. Marcy Lewis, narrating in first person, paints a picture of her crappy junior high life what with obesity, friendlessness, hating gym class, boring writing assignments, and a verbally abusive father. Then a new English teacher comes and changes her world. Unconventional Ms. _________ is a hippy, doesn’t teach by the curriculum, but inspires in her students the aptitude to get to know their true selves and to use the English language with witty metaphors. Marcy’s crush, Joel, begins to notice her and admire her for her intelligence, and their friendship begins with many quick-witted exchanges.

All very promising, right?

Unfortunately, Ms. __________ gets suspended for her rebellious teaching methods and the book turns into a battle for justice. Marcy, Joel and their friends team up to undermine the principal, and Marcy’s “put upon” mother rallies against their father to help. There’s a lot of household drama and too many blatant messages about “I don’t need to be/dress/act like everyone else.” Caring parents (it also bugged me that Marcy and her mother were both weepy, and hugged one another a little too much — not all moments of affection need to be documented in a novel!) tell their children how much they’ll learn from the experience, unsupportive parents are utter jerks. Realistically, Ms. _______ wins her hearing, but resigns out of personal principle. I’m thankful that Marcy and Joel don’t have a hackneyed fairytale ending. Marcy’s mother is empowered to escape her father’s clutches and get a job.

I’m thinking of Budge Wilson’s short story, “The Metaphor”, which is a similar tale of a life-changing English teacher. Wilson’s story, though, is a simpler and more sophisticated — in “The Metaphor,” the narrator encounters her favourite teacher again in high school but is too embarassed to acknowledge her, because most of her friends found the said teacher uncool. To me, that’s a far more tragic and appropriate expression of growing up, change, and self-realization.

Iza Genzken

I came across this article on frieze. The article only contains an image, but the text of the review is so … loose, and exquisite, that I had to look her up.

Read:

“Below them were her other new sculptures: Strandhäuser zum Umziehen (Beach Houses for Undressing, 2000). They sat on a line of white pedestals and looked out of a window onto a brutal group of offices and shops. As their title suggests, they can be read as models for coastal shelters. Each of them is an assemblage of cheap materials, such as paper cut-outs, plaster, board, and metal scraps, and each one conjures up a different occupant: expressions of personality, or personal taste, in an architectural guise. Unlike most architectural models however, the detailing of the sculptures’ surfaces is not about miniaturised approximation… There is a sense of risk in Genzken’s choice of materials and form, and the buildings are full of humour. “

Here is, for instance, Urlaub (2004)

More from the Saatchi Gallery

Is Age Just a Number?

Is there any age in your lifetime that you would like to re-live again and why? ( It can be a single year or an age range of several years.) Is there anything you would do differently if you had the chance?

21, or 23. Those were the best years of my life so far. I wouldn’t do anything different, except maybe enjoy them more, be more open to different people i’d met during that time in those places.

Is there a specific decade or period of time, within or outside of your lifetime that you would like to visit and why? Would you want to stay there if given the opportunity? Why or why not?

I’d love to visit many eras – the 19th c., Elizabethan England, the Renaissance in Florence, the medieval times in – say – the black forest of Baden or in rural France, Constantinople in its prime. Stay? Nah.

Do you have any general thoughts about aging or being a specific age? Or is Age just a number and has no special significance?

oh, age matters. I definitely see the difference in maturity, priorities, and character between myself and – say – a seventeen year old. I was pretty mature in my teens, but there’s still a difference. As you get older, you know yourself better, are more confident and self-aware etc. You also have different relationships with people at different ages – I will never be close to a friend the same way I was when I was 15, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. I also have different expectations for a romantic relationship and would probably behave differently than someone five years younger. Age isn’t determining in these cases – I think it’s a combination of age, and experience – but it still contributes to how I think and act and see myself.

Multitasking

I’m a good multi tasker.

This research shows what’s obvious. If you do two things at once, you give each half your attention.

What I’m interested in, though, is the relationship between the two tasks. How does doing one thing influence the other? For example, listening to classical music while studying is multitasking, or listening to music while driving is multitasking. While your brain is switching back and forth between the two tasks, can’t new ideas be generated? New feelings? Refreshed energy? In theory it’s better to concentrate 100%, but intuitively many people find that listening to music while driving can reduce stress, for example.

But is listening to music while driving a task ?
Does it not run parallel with a task like driving , complementing it?

I thought the article said it was:

Multitasking involves engaging in two tasks simultaneously. But here’s the catch: It’s only possible if two conditions are met: 1) at least one of the tasks is so well learned as to be automatic, meaning no focus or thought is necessary to engage in the task (e.g., driving) and 2) the tasks involve different types of brain processing. For example, you can read effectively while listening to classical music because reading comprehension and processing instrumental music engage different parts of the brain. However, your ability to retain information while reading and listening to music with lyrics declines significantly because both tasks activate the language center of the brain

I agree that tasks can complement each other.

Dear Mr. Henshaw, by Beverley Clearly

I think this is a simple story of a tragic contemporary situation, well told.

The premise is unique: a boy writes to his favourite author, Mr. Henshaw, about his parent’s divorce. Henshaw’s replies are terse, but Leigh writes persistently, eventually -at the writer’s suggestion – keeping a journal to “Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw” to abate his loneliness. Leigh’s character is shown through his writings, and as he journals, we can see Leigh grow, and his voice develop.

In the middle of the story, Leigh asks Henshaw for advice on a story he is writing.
“In a story, a character must grow or change in some way.” Leigh acknowledges the advice: “I guess a wax man who keeps melting isn’t really the kind of change you’re talking about.”

Heeding her own advice, Clearly’s character changes perceptibly: each of three strands of Leigh’s life – school, family, and writing – change and become resolved. As his relationship with his father (whose irresponsible behaviour has always been jarring to the sensitive boy, particularly in his inability to express affection – “Keep your nose clean, kid,” is all Leigh gets when he wants to be addressed by his first name and be told he’s missed) worsens, Leigh’s writing improves: at the climax of the story, Leigh calls his father after a long silence and discovers that not only has he neglected to call his son, but that he has lost his dog, and has a girlfriend with a son. In his incredible pain, Leigh finds that he is able to journal for himself: he finds that he no longer has to write to Mr. Pretend Henshaw, “I have learned to express my feelings on a piece of paper.” When home life falls apart, Leigh has his writer’s epiphany. Eventually, his intelligence – which takes expression in fashioning a burglar alarm for his lunchbox (his stolen lunches has been a source of humour and a way to portray his out-of-place- status at his new school), he finally garners friends who think his skills are all too cool.

Leigh continues to write honestly and wins a prize in the yearbook writing contest. In his composition, he had described a memory of an afternoon with his father, which apparently – according to the jury writer – conveyed the place, and his feelings truthfully. This reminds me of Emily of New Moon’s trial to write “only the truth” for three years, and her writing improves from illustrating facts. “Write what you know” (although there’s a good deal of writing limited by what the author knows, -> see The Cat Ate My Gymsuit). Dear Mr. Henshaw is also the classic novel-for-aspiring-writers, in which the bookish main character gets their first recognition for their dreams – but for all its perfection in plot and structure it is no Emily, which will always be a true psychological portrait of a writer’s mind, and “alpine path,” for me.

The book culminates in this awkward scene when Leigh’s father comes back and tries to reconcile the divorce, and we can tell that Leigh’s writing talents have become articulate enough to convey the charged emotions of this moment. It’s a poignant scene, and artful of Clearly to choose to tell it from the limited perspective of a child narrator.

memorabilia, memories, and missing people

when you miss someone, do you find that photos help you or that they make you even more emotional? what about letters and gifts from that person?

I’m really nostalgic but I think that having photos, or any objects, can make me obsess. If I’m missing someone and I reread letters or look at photos, then I just wallow in memories and don’t move on.

would you rather remember a happy event or a beautiful place through photos or through your own memories?

I have a pretty good memory, but when I look at photos I realize there are things I don’t remember exactly correctly. So photos can help fill in/round out my memory. However, photos sometimes overwrite my memories, and I hate that. If something’s really special I would rather make a mental note to remember it precisely in my mind, than have a poorly taken photo.

do you think you’re genuinely missing someone or that you’re just being nostalgic when you go through old photos/letters etc. and long for those times/their company?

I think I’m mostly just being nostalgic. If I’m genuinely missing someone that’s usually triggered by other, more “living” activities, like wishing they were here so I could tell them about my day, a book I read that I’d like to discuss with them, finding something I like at a store that I’d like to give them as a gift… etc.

I refilled my bus card, picked up a copy of the magazine I write for, and am trying to grow geranium slips. I also bought a cute oven mitt, some tomato juice – and – excitement of all excitements, I found shortening at the grocery store!

horoscopes

Do you ever look up the horoscopes of you + object of affection?

hahahaha. yes. of course. i go to astro.com where you key in birthdays, years and birth cities and stuff, and it generates star charts and analyses. i feel pretty silly and stalkerish because it’s so “exact,” like, you’re not just looking up pisces and capricorns, you are looking it up with a specific person in mind.

Would you veto a relationship with someone because your horoscopes didn’t match?

interestingly, my past three crushes were all born in the same month. and my sign’s not supposed to match this sign at all. i wouldn’t veto the relationship, but knowing that the signs don’t match makes me more skeptical.

Have you ever explained your relationships using horoscopes? (eg. have you ever explained a bad relationship due to incompatible horoscopes, or have you ever went… ‘oh yeah, we get along really well because he’s a pisces, etc.’)?

see, the one person who has truly been my nemesis growing up, and who still intimidates me in some ways today is someone of a sign i clash with. at the same time, i actually have a lot in common with this person, and feel an enormous amount of compassion for her – when i don’t feel scorn and a sort of exasperated anger with her for being so ridiculous. in my head, i’ve always explained our hatred for one another with astrology.

some of my closest friends are earth and water signs, and i’m thrilled when that happens because it seems like it’s foreordained. but other times our signs don’t match at all and i still love them. sometimes people don’t fit into my preconception of that sign at all. so there’s no hard and fast rule.

What about other kinds of horoscopes and fortune-telling? eg. Chinese horoscopes, numerology, tarot cards, etc.

well, it’s pretty easy for me to do both western and chinese horoscopes automatically in my head whenever i find out someone’s birthday and age. i know the general rules of which signs get along and which ones clash, so a light bulb kinda goes off in my head, i don’t have even have to purposely look it up. i also compare birthdays and look for patterns that way – eg. “this person has the same birthday as my father! he’s just as mellow and easygoing as my dad. etc.”

it does limit people, in some ways, and it does put them in a box, but i guess when i think along these lines i’m intrigued enough by said person to try to figure out their personality.

i think the box goes away, though, if you get down to exact calculations: birth year, month, date, time, and geographic location. each person’s birth is unique. there are general attributes for people born in a certain year (chinese horoscopes), and for people born in a certain month/date (western horoscopes), but the combinations are endless when you put them together. and there is always potential, and loopholes, in astrology.

See, we used to have silent reading periods in class, for half an hour or so, but the problem was that once I started a book I couldn’t put it down. So I’d keep reading even though silent reading was over and math class had started. And I’d open my book again the minute the bell rang for recess.

I stopped doing that in high school though because I always had unfinished homework for my next class to do on my lap instead.

favourites of school

In order of preference: Art, English, Geography, History, Algebra and Geometry, Calculus, Biology, and Physics.

I’m sure I forgot something.

I loved high school. I always liked school and I loved reading my textbooks even when I was in elementary, but I really feel like I discovered my passion for learning in high school.

My favourite teacher in elementary school was my sixth grade teacher. She had a reputation for being very strict, but when we got to her class we found out that those were mere rumours. She was warm and inspiring and loved all of her students. She ran her class (a split grade 5/6 class) with all sorts of inspiring projects and really challenged us. I still remember most of the units we did in her class, and all of the science experiments. She made us take notes that were detailed, high-school-standard, and covered the entire blackboard with notes. One of my favourites was the unit we did on plant growth, in which we actually got to landscape the school garden in groups – each group was assigned a plot and a small budget, plant all sorts of seeds and observe them in addition to actually studying the scientific terminology of photosynthesis. (I looked back to her notes on the particle/bundle theory of light when I was in gr. 12 physics, and found them useful.) We learned how to write narrative, explanatory and descriptive paragraphs through a whole bunch of creative exercises in her class; these are writing skills I still refer back to today. We also had sex-ed that year, and she taught the unit really well – everything from the science of human reproduction to the social/mental/emotional growth that comes with hitting puberty, and all the girls and boys learned it together too. She was a really wonderful and effective teacher. AND, she became pregnant with her first child that year; so we all worked really hard to throw her a surprise baby shower, and I remember I made her a teddy bear for her baby. We all loved her: she was so wise, intelligent, and truly a good teacher.

In high school I loved all of my art teachers. They may have favoured me a little, but they really brought out the artist in me, and were dedicated to helping their art students – I could run in and see them at 8 in the morning for extra help on a drawing, I got extensions when I needed them, and a lot of encouragement. They even helped me personally when I was so stressed out over some of my other classes one semester in grade 11 that I literally had a mental breakdown in class one day… my art teacher was really caring, told me she could relate exactly because she’d gone through something similar at college. I have them on facebook but I don’t keep in touch as much as I should. One passed away a month ago (I caught up with her before her death last fall), and the other became head of the art department this year. I am really just awed and saddened by how much water has run under the bridge since those days.

I also really liked my math teacher. He was an excellent teacher and really made you grasp the concepts in all three math subjects in his class. In fact, all of my friends and I had a crush on him – he wasn’t handsome, but he was very geekily endearing, all the more so because the slackers would always make fun of him and how he was cross-eyed. I valued him as a teacher even before my friends started giddily hitting on him, though.

I’ve had some good instructors in university, and some awful ones; but mostly I think of them more as peers and role models rather than teachers. Some of the best profs and TAs are only graduates a few years older than me, so being able to teach and critique like they do is something I aspire to. Other ones are far older, and are great lecturers and storytellers, and I enjoy their classes and want to be able to speak with their ease and breadth of knowledge, but I don’t really get any tangible knowledge out of their classes, just a lot of inspiration.

embroidered stools

by Jane Schouten via Design*Sponge

Sigrid and Hans Lammie Cityscape

Courtesy of Grain Edit, this will grace my desktop.

Knitted Lamps

Kwangho Lee’s knitted lamps via DesignSponge. I can die with the sheer beauty of it.

Princess Diaries, Meg Cabot

I had a lovely forenoon eating my grilled eggplant salad and finishing Princess Diaries which, to my surprise and delight, is absolutely hilarious and not teeny-boppery at all.

Cabot can write literature – not just Disneyfied potboilers. Mia is an opinionated ninth-grader and snarky diarist with real teenage problems: I don’t mean the princess deal, but a flat-chest, the lack of a date, and a quarrel with your best friend from kindergarten is all truly heartrending stuff in the high school world, not that the book is sappy or cliched at all. All her issues are set in this great hyperbole in NYC, with her activist friend Lilly, and the succession to the Genovian throne, and her mother’s bohemian life… not for a moment do you believe it or are swept away by the escapism, but you do laugh your head off because it’s just so ironic and fantastic that Mia is handed the royal crown and she thinks it’s the most horrible thing that has ever happened to her, and she would take any way out.

The diary format is perfect. As per tradition Mia warns us that she is an unreliable narrator with a penchant to lie, but all throughout her voice is convincing. She uses big words and comments on current events all through the eyes of a teenager who is developing her own opinions. She might despair about her appearance, while being astute enough to notice that her mom is “hot” (comment prior to mom’s date), but she completely avoids being a whiny or stereotypical teenager. Mia is very much her own person. Her strong vegetarianism, how readily she confesses how comfortable she is around the Muscovitzes, her immature but oh-so-funny disgust of Mr. G. dating her mom, the dorky Boris, her dad’s testicle cancer… etcetera. And the tone of her diary is perfectly complemented by the algebra notes in the margin, and the notes and essays she clips into it. That she does manage to journal so often at school, and in restrooms during a crises, is a little hard to believe, but the immediacy of all her thoughts and situations make the book such an engaging read.

I am such a fan.

I have been a fan of the movie for years, and have a hard time picturing Mia as a tall, short-haired blonde rather than dark-haired Anne Hathaway. And while the Disney movie has very little of the edgy humour there is in the book (of course, testicle cancer, mom’s date with the algebra teacher, and Mia’s hilarious comments about being brought up out of wedlock had to be censored), I do think they captured the message of the novel and of Mia’s character: a princess who is true to herself, who holds fast to her own unique identity.

When I think of Miriam Toews’ mennonite novel, A Kindness, I think there is almost the same level of humour. Toews’ sarcasm was darker and she had a heavier subject to deal with, but essentially, it’s the same theme: teenage girls, coping with family drama and growing up, journalling by request of an adult, to sort through problems. I laughed just as hard in either novel and I think Mia is much more likeable (and worthy of sympathy) than Nomi. I hope Princess Diaries receives more critical acclaim, because it’s so easy to dismiss it as a popular teenage novel, just because it has a bright pink cover and a princess theme – when – in my opinion – it really does touch on the deeper issues of growing up without being maudlin.

fears overcome

When I was a child, I used to be terrified of fire. I wouldn’t go near a lighted candle or a gas stove.
These days, though, I love a good campfire and I love toasting my feet over an open fireplace more than anything. i overcame that when my friend taught me how to build a fire and to tend it, so – in a way – i feel like i know how to keep it under control.

i’ve also overcome my fear of bugs. i still freak out when i see them, but i can summon up the courage to kill them. that is just out of necessity because i don’t live with anyone who can kill them for me.

i also thought i would never be the type to feel safe on a motorcycle, but i recently had a ride on one and it was a lot of fun!

optimism

Do you consider yourself an optimist or a pessimist?

An optimist when it comes to human nature, and a pessimist when it comes to myself.

Is optimism or pessimism a learned trait or are you born with the chemical makeup?
I think I was born with it, but I also think the Anne books have heavily influenced my optimism.

When faced with a crisis, do you generally think it will end badly?

I don’t really think about how it’ll end, I just think “oh, crap, this is bad. what do i do now?” and take it one step at a time.

Are you hopeful that the world will become a better place?

Yes, definitely.

How does one stay optimistic?

Repeat to yourself every night before going to bed: “Tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it.”

Otherwise Known as Sheila the Great, Judy Blume

Okay, i see why judy blume is awesome. Sheila is complex, exactly her age, and hilarious. Her self-denial is so realistic and it makes her very down to earth. What a great character! I love how she admits everything reluctantly, but does come to admit it after all… what a great inspiration for pre-teenage-hood.

Totally digging blume and i can’t believe i missed out on her growing up. I was so close to reading Superfudge. Well, i’ll read more of her sometime.

Facial add-ons

Moustache Ring by melaniefavreau’s

Taz ah surprise mugs by Attua Aparicio Torino

I find that when I read personal blogs, I end up with a lot of admiration for the blogger, whether it’s an online friend or someone I know in person. I find out so much more about their interests and opinions and what they do. The last part really gets me: it’s incredible that people get so much done in their lives (and manage to blog about it too). One of the blogs I read is that of a friend who’s 8 months pregnant with her second child, raising a toddler, moving houses (due to the recession) while her husband’s taking his professional exams. Another blog I read is of a girl who’s doing her masters near where I’m from, and has all her insights on the city, on books she’s read (she has excellent tastes), and craft projects. And then it has tons of links to other craft blogs/websites. It’s just so cool how creative and literate people can be, and how everyday lives are so interesting!

I often stumble on blogs where I have a lot in common with the writer, too – someone who shares the same music tastes, or is interested in learning the same languages I am, or has travelled to places I went to… etc. It’s cool how I can identify with someone I totally don’t know.

I kinda wish I had the willpower to blog regularly.

The Silver Chair, C. S. Lewis

So The Witch, the Lion and the Wardrobe is Edmund’s struggle, Prince Caspian is – all of the children’s, – Dawn Treader is Eustace’s and The Silver Chair is Jill’s.

Jill, who shows off, and forgets to repeat the signs – or say her prayers, and so, “muffs up” the sequence of things in the story. The children in the underworld, where, like Plato’s cave, all is darkness and we can be conned into believing that sunlight and God are imaginary because there is no visible proof. The children brainwashed into this by the Green Lady and her lute and fire, like Meg and Calvin with IT in A Wrinkle in Time.

As always, very clear images. Not as purely symbolic as Dawn Treader, though.

The passage of time hurt me in this story as much as it hurt Eustace. It is one of my least favourite parts about the Narnian series – first, that the time in the two worlds aren’t relative, second, that we MUST jump from character to character and to differernt eras. Then, too, we know Caspian as a bright young man, and it does hurt to see him aged – frail – dead. (His “ascension”, the thorn and blood and rejuvenation is beautiful and symbolic and joyous, though. And I’m glad Caspian got to visit the world even if he plays a very minor role.) There is SUCH sadness in the Silver Chair, out-rivalled only by the finality of The Last Battle. That’s my other point of contention with the Narnia books – the end always has the sadness of farewell.

In that way, The Horse and His Boy is one of the happiest stories of Narnia, although I can’t love these characters as well as the Pevensies.

Lewis is a snarky writer. Puddleglum is hilarious and wonderful. His insights into Jill’s acting innocent is hilarious, and his comments on the Experiment House are definitely political. He’s extremely critical of “modern” ways through Eustace and Eustace’s school, and in doing so he sets up this battle between Christianity and Modernity. As for his comment that the “Head… went into parliament, and there she lived happily ever after”… I can hardly believe this sort of snark is in a children’s book. Then again these aren’t children’s books per se… I’m convinced they are family books, meant to be read aloud, therefore full of humour that will enliven the elocutionist’s reading.

The landscape is distinctly British.

WELL: project for next month: read Mere Christianity!

I don’t think I have a celebrity fashion icon.

I do emulate how other people dress – in magazines, movies, on store window displays, and most of all – on people I know. I find that I’m often influenced by my housemates and close friend’s tastes; for example, I have a friend who loves to wear scarves and she got me into them unconsciously, I have another one who loves red and although I never cared for red before now I’m excited by the colour…. etc.

I also have my own style, though. I love vintage and I love “cute stuff.” If I had to emulate anyone… I think it would be Audrey Hepburn.

Does language limit thoughts or do thoughts limit language? Can we think about things there aren’t words for in our language?

Very interesting. I guess language comes from experience, too, like Henk says everyone has a different definition of love.

I guess you can have thoughts that you don’t know the word for. For example, not every language has the word “serendipity,” but if you were thinking about serendipity you’d just describe the fact that you found something wonderful while looking for something else, and feel like there’s a magical force in the universe guiding you to it.

Letterpress Poster

This is what I call beautiful….

The Woman in White, by Wilkie Collins

The story is framed as a compilation of evidence from different perspectives; so it begins with several cold, independent statements of the case.

Each narrator has a different voice. As Charlie says: “Each makes a point, they both tell from their very specific point of view, tell in a voice characteristic for their character and position in life and both [Marian and Walter] are honestly trying to be faithful and they just are such loveable characters, because they are determined by reason and sanity above all else.”

With each narration, the plot thickens. And there’s this sense of imminent doom, so I kept hoping against hope.

When I finished it last night, the plot was totally unexpected!

I love the twists to everything – how Anne Catherick got to be buried with Mrs. Fairlie, how Laura wished she was poor so she could marry Walter and she did, how Mrs. Catherick hoped Sir Percival would die and he did, and Pesco’s unexpected role.

I don’t think the crime that Sir Percival committed was so terrible, or that it made him out to be an evil person. I know Victorian laws are different, but if he was brought up to believe that he was the legal son of his parents, it does seem unfair that he couldn’t inherit his father’s property. It’s not as if he claimed to be someone completely different. I wish Wilkie Collins had made Sir Percival impersonate someone completely unrelated to him; for example, that he had known the Glyde family but wasn’t part of the family, and decided to pretend that he was their son by forging their marriage record to get his hands on their money and property. That would have been more consistent to me.

fat

I’m teaching kids and some of my coworkers are pretty horrified that the kids are using the word “fat” to describe people and things. “Don’t say ‘My grandmother is fat’… you’ll make her cry.’” my coworker said.

Now, I know it’s considered very rude in our society to say that someone is fat. At the same time, “fat” is a fact and a valid adjective. If we tell kids they can’t use the word fat, then we lose a useful word and a simple way of describing things. If we don’t teach kids to understand the concept of “fat”, then it’s… a loss I can’t imagine.

I mean, is using replacing “fat” with another word like “chubby” or “big-boned” really any better? I think “fat’ is just offensive when it’s said in an offensive way. You can still insult someone by calling them “chubby” in a malicious tone.

It makes me think of the following conversation from The Giver, (a young adult novel set in a futuristic society where people have been weeded out to prevent differences in appearance, strength, etc.; and children are taught from an early age to speak in precise, politically correct words)

“Do you love me?”

There was an awkward silence for a moment. Then Father gave a little chuckle. “Jonas. You, of all people! Precise language, please!”

“What do you mean?” Jonas asked. Amusement was not at all what he had anticipated.

“Your father means that you used a very generalized word, so meaningless that it’s become almost obsolete.”..

“And of course our community can’t function smoothly if people don’t use precise language. You could ask, ‘Do you enjoy me?’ The answer is ‘Yes.”"

“Or,” his father suggested. “Do you take pride in my accomplishments?” The answer is wholeheartedly yes.”

Is “fat” becoming obsolete? What are your thoughts?

I would never call someone “fat” out loud, I usually use words like chubby or overweight.

I still think the word “fat” is a basic adjective that every child needs to understand. Big, small; fat, thin; tall, short. Fat is the opposite of thin, not overweight or obese. You can describe a cat as fat. You can describe a pumpkin as fat. Fat was never intended to be judgmental, but we as a society made it so.

If we all start using the term “obese” instead of fat, aren’t people just going to find “obese” insulting 10 years down the road? “Oh, she’s so obese.”

Bread and Milk Pendant

Ahhh I love this and I want one!

Bread and Milk pendant by melaniefavreau